


I Saved A Plate For You

by ilgaksu



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Young Avengers
Genre: Clint Barton's Farm, Deaf Clint Barton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 11:24:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3118376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilgaksu/pseuds/ilgaksu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kate finds out about the farm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Saved A Plate For You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [not-the-hawkguys](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=not-the-hawkguys).



"But seriously," she laughs at you, her mockingbird eyes devil-alive and her mouth meticulously painted. You gesture behind you at the farm and grin back. 

"Don’t you like it?"

She laughs again and rolls her eyes, hair dark against the sugar-pale colour of her coat. This Kate, the one shrouded in her old money cut close to the skin, is the one that reminds you that Kate Bishop dressed to go out to war long before the war ever came to her. She looks incongrouous on the porch, peeling white paint against her red lips and tall girl boots. You want her to fit here somehow, in a way you can’t explain (articulating the void in your busted carnie chest was difficult long before the world went silent), so you invite her in instead. 

She doesn’t fit, of course. Kate stands there with her head cocked, limbs bird-like, smiling that laughing smile, pulling off her gloves. The television is broken. It was you that broke it, smashed open the screen like ripping the stitches out of a wound because the subtitles couldn’t keep up with the news enough and it all felt like a metaphor. She raises her eyebrows but says nothing. 

"Doesn’t it get cold?" she asks, clicking her way through to look at the gutted fireplace, absently greeting Lucky who rolls over to her with puppy-love eagerness. Honestly. He’s too old for that. You realise you haven’t replied. You shrug and she rolls her eyes. 

"There’s coffee," you offer in the kitchen and she takes it, swings herself up onto the counter so her heels rattle against the cupboard doors, hooks her fingers around the mug loosely. Her nail polish is chipped, you notice, but only on one hand. You chug down another mug and wait. 

"The light," she allows finally, "I like the light."

She still doesn’t fit, but you can carve out a space for her if you need to. It’s enough. 


End file.
